A Kindred Night
by HelloJudy
Summary: A restless Peter finds solace with sleepless Claire. Kind of fluffy. No incest.


**A Kindred Night**

_by Couchpotatodancer_

_(started May 10.07. Completed May 14.07 there's a chance I might take it down later for revisions)_

_Heroes Season 1, Post ".07 percent" Later that night, after the glass is removed from Peter's head. _

_Claire/Peter. No incest, just an admiration for their love and indestructible bond._

_Disclaimer:__ Characters belong to NBC and Tim Kring._

_A/N: __Tried to do my best with it but it still came out...fluffy. It had to get written though because this scene was haunting me. I hope you enjoy it. _

In the living room of the Petrelli house, Peter couldn't sleep. He sat on the plush couch, under wide windows and a dim glow of a single lamp. Though all was still in the late night hour, shadows cast all around him, the pencil in his hand moved with the fervor of a mad man on the pages of his leather bound sketchbook. Quick, sweeping lines, meticulous scribbling. With out an artistic bone in his body, he drew like a seasoned cartoonist, a talent not learned, but an ability endowed unto him. A vision haunted his mind, yes, but this was only part of the reason why he drew in such a way; as if the vision was clawing his brain to get out.

Peter just felt utterly helpless. Helpless to save the world, helpless to fulfill his destiny. Was this even his destiny? He vented his building frustration with each rapid stroke and speedy shadowing, wondering with disappointed hurt why his family wasn't at his side. Why is his brother so skeptical even after everything that's happened? Why is his mother sending Claire—the reason for his determination—away when they all know a world altering event is imminent. Lives will be lost. There are bigger things at play here that just can't be ignored. So he'd be alone. He always knew he'd be alone. He just wished his family had more faith in him.

Releasing a breath he didn't realize he was holding, he studied the finished product. Though it was colorless and in pencil, his drawing illustrated New York in flaming ruins and a newspaper flying in the wind with the headline exclaiming "Vote Petrelli!"

What did this mean? What did any of it mean?

He tossed the sketchbook in abandon, for the raging frustration inside him, the world of hurt and confusion that seemed to coalesce, was on the brink. He rose, paced the room, trying to think, trying to find an answer. As he paced, furniture rattled and his invisibility faded in and out. Finally he realized his abilities were sensitive to his emotions, that if he didn't get a hold on himself, his multiple abilities could take over.

So he stopped. Took a breath. Shut his eyes. Again, all was still. It would be so easy, he thought. It would be so easy to give up. Run. Hide. Go with Claire to Paris. The temptation was great, but Peter had the will to know better. Tired, he picked up his sketchbook, set it in a drawer. He climbed the curving, pristine staircase leading to the second floor, headed towards his bedroom. Sleep would be best, he urged himself. Maybe when he'd wake up, the day would bring some glimmer of hope he prayed for. Then as he was passed the guest bedroom, he heard her.

_Mom, I'm so sorry…I miss you… _

It surprised him at first, to hear Claire's voice because he'd forgotten about his mind reading ability. Not quite capable yet of honing this ability, it occurred rarely. He approached her door, wanted to knock, but opted not to, for she could be asleep and what he heard was her dreams of longing for the mother that raised her. Still compelled to check on her, he cracked open the door and took a peek.

His mother, who swears by the importance of fine appearances, had decorated the guest bedroom with the intention a girl would be living in it. A girl of her own. But after her two beautiful boys were born, another child was out of the question. Peter didn't know why. For the time being, this was her granddaughter's room.

In the moonlight, you couldn't see the coral hue of the walls, or how immaculate the oak cabinets and armoires were adorning the scheme. Claire was lying in the oak full sized four poster bed, draped in linens and moonlight. She's a beautiful blonde with eyes green as Ireland and equally enchanting. But the moonlight shone bright, polishing the room and everything in it to varying shades of silver and dark.

She wasn't asleep either, he noticed and there was something heartening in that. He pushed open the door wider and said gently, "hey."

Her gaze drew from the window to her uncle leaning against the doorway. "Hey," she said back with a curved smile. To him, she always looked as if she were expecting him.

To her, Claire always felt her heart do a little summersault when she saw him. And at the moment, that happy lilt was what she needed.

"I heard you from out here."

"You heard me from out there? I never said anything."

"I heard you say you miss your mom."

"How did you--?" Remaining where she was, she rolled her eyes as the recognition dawned on her. "You could read minds too?" She was reminded, fleetingly, of Parkman. "Be careful with that one. I trust you with my life, but a girl's gotta have some secrets."

"I'll be glad to stay out of your head once I know how to control it," he replied as he crossed the room to sit at the edge of her bed. He took her hand in his, discovered it was delicate. "You don't have to though, keep any secrets from me if you don't want to." Because it felt good to, he affectionately tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Talk to me Claire."

She stared at their joined hands--the connection she ached for, and fought the urge to weep. "Do you know what I'm thinking now?"

He shook his head no. Moments passed, but he was patient and saw right through her, the same burden and confusion struggling him was stirring in her. He watched her resolve slip away by the tears welling up in her eyes, her lip trembling, the way her delicate hand gripped his.

"Peter…" It was said as a whimper, a plea ripping him apart. "I'm just so scared…I'm so scared." It was then she allowed herself to cry. Her shoulders racked and fat tears fell hot, blurring her vision then spilling over and tracking her face.

"Hey." It came natural for him to comfort and protect her, to stroke her hair and run his fingers down her tear drenched cheeks. "Hey, I know. I know, Claire. I'm scared too. Terrified. But you're not alone, ok? We're gonna get through this together, I promise." Undone, he kissed her forehead, then touched her brow with his. "Please, don't give up on us," he whispered.

His eyes were understanding and had looked directly into hers. Though he had spoken softly, it was said with conviction. He talked of fear, but she couldn't sense it. His strength reminded her to keep going, to not be afraid in all this chaos because he'd be there for her. Calmer now, she nodded, tried to smile for him. "Today," she began. "When you...died...I was so sad because...I thought I wouldn't get the chance to know you."

"It's all because of you Claire. You saved me."

He reached over to her beside table, pulled out tissues and handed it to her. While she mopped up her face, Peter remembered the photo albums his mother stored away here in this room. "I have an idea." He crossed the room to the bookshelf and picked out thick maroon colored albums.

Claire straightened, tossed the soiled tissues away in the waste basket. "What are you doing?"

"Well, since _you_ can't sleep, and _I _can't sleep, we're going to use this time to get to know each other. And we'll start with these..." He dropped the heavy photo albums on the bed, then climbed in and affectionately sat beside her, shoulder to shoulder. "Ok, Claire. Now, I'm only showing you these because you're family, but you have to promise that anything you see here doesn't leave the room."

"What, you mean like naked baby pictures?" She asked with a giggle.

He lifted the cover, showed her an old photo of baby Peter bathing in the kitchen sink.

"Aww...you're so cute! You even have a classic rubber ducky," she said in baby voice.

In the effulgent moonlight, they paged through old photo albums late into the night, pausing every once in awhile when a certain picture piqued Claire's interest and prompted her to reveal something about herself. They laughed, shared stories about family, learned about each other's favorite things. She even wanted to know what her brothers and Heidi were like, as much as it saddened her.

They should've discussed what's to come, about what they each know. But Peter liked learning about his niece, enjoyed seeing her eyes light up with laughter or caught in a childhood anecdote he was telling. They needed a safe night, one where they weren't afraid, running away or dying.

And then, in the solace of normalcy, she fell asleep, on his shoulder with the album still open on their laps. He pressed his lips to the top of her head, let it linger there a moment before lowering her gingerly back on to the pillow. And as he did so, he heard her whisper in his mind...

_Please, don't go._

But Peter never planned to slip away and leave her undisturbed. Instead, he lay down and followed her into a deep sleep. Finally, he was able to rest.

Fin.


End file.
